


Skin Deep

by lamardeuse



Category: I Spy (1965)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kelly and Scotty get a taste of the country they're sworn to defend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Written in honour of tzikeh's birthday.

It was a sublime irony, Scotty thought, that after years of gallivanting around the globe on every form of transportation known to man – planes, gondolas, camels, you name it –  they should finally be run to ground in the middle of northern Mississippi by a 1963 Fairlane with engine trouble.

Of course, they were stranded precisely halfway between Memphis and Jackson, so the only thing to do after leaving the interstate was to find the nearest place that seemed likely to have a phone and get in touch with a local garage. 

“Hold up, man,” he said, the words halting Kelly’s hand as it rose to knock on the door.  Kel shot him a questioning look as Scotty joined him on the porch.  “I’ll take this one.”

Kel frowned but stepped aside, and Scotty knocked on the door.  A few moments later, a silver-haired woman answered the door and looked him up and down through the patched screen door before answering his greeting.

“My phone’s in through here,” she said, casting a wary glance at Kelly and stepping aside to admit Scotty. 

“Much obliged, ma’am,” Scotty said, ducking his head.  He looked back at Kel, who nodded at him and stayed put on the front porch, looking about as out of place standing there on the shaded, dusty boards as a commissar at a Shriners convention. 

Scotty turned and followed the woman inside, not bothering to explain to Kel how he had known.  Plenty of poor white sharecropper’s houses looked like they could have done with a fresh coat of paint, or had a whitewashed old tire filled with daisies in the swept-dirt front yard.  Truth was, it was the smell of the collard greens that had done it.  He’d only spent one summer with his grandmother in Alabama, but he could still remember the way she cooked greens, and this woman cooked them the same way. 

White people’s houses didn’t smell like home.

    
    
    
    
   
    
    
    
    
 

Scotty made the arrangements with the garage, and they walked back to the interstate to wait for the truck.  When the driver, a short, round cracker with brown teeth and beady blue eyes, hopped down from the cab, he took one look at Scotty and opened his mouth.

“We’re gonna need a ride to the garage,” Kel told him, putting just enough emphasis on the _We’re _to make everything clear.  Brown Teeth’s pig eyes widened for a second, and Scotty could practically see the smoke coming from his ears, but Kelly had a head and a half on him, and pretty soon he grunted something that sounded enough like assent for Scotty to let out the breath he’d been holding. 

He wanted to draw Kel aside and say, _Listen, you have no idea_, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. 

    
    
    
    
   
    
    
    
    
 

When they got to the garage, Scotty lingered outside the door.  He flashed a thin smile at Kelly and made an after-you motion with his hand.  “Your turn.”

Kel hesitated for a moment before going inside, and Scotty could see the tension gathered in his muscles.  The hip veneer of expensive shirts and sports coats never managed to completely cover the predator inhabiting them.  But the only thing the people around here would see was a well-dressed Northerner with a fancy smile, because that was what Kelly Robinson wanted them to see.

Scotty knew exactly what they’d see when they looked at _him_, but he had no control over that.

The summer he’d turned fifteen, he’d still been a weedy kid, impatient to grow into his too-long arms and legs.  Clumsy and dying to be cool, he’d taken up smoking, fingers cupped around the glowing end like Bogart, until his pops had caught the smell of it on his clothes and told him in no uncertain terms to cut it out.  _You want to be a man_, he’d said, _start saving your money for school instead of wasting it on cigarettes._

For the first time in over a decade, standing there in the oppressive heat of a Mississippi afternoon, Scotty’s hands itched for a cigarette, for the stiff crackle of the dried tobacco bound by its paper prison.

    
    
    
    
   
    
    
    
    
 

In the end, neither Kel’s city charm nor his money were enough to get the car fixed before closing time; the garage was (big damn surprise) missing the part they needed.  After extracting a promise it’d be sent from Jackson first thing in the morning, they headed down the dusty street to the one and only place to stay, a dingy collection of frame cottages that were past their prime twenty years ago.  Kel had wanted to call for a car to come and pick them up, but Scotty vetoed it.  Sure, some pencil-pusher had messed up their flight reservation from New Orleans, necessitating the car rental, but some _other _poor pencil-pusher who’d never done them any harm would be detailed to drag his butt down here from Memphis and chauffeur them back in the middle of the night.

“You really want to stay here?” Kel said, eyeing the peeling sign that hung above the office door. 

“No, Kel, I do not _want _to stay here, but I accept that I _have _to stay here.  It’s either this or sleeping in the car, and I hate that car.  I hate it with a passion that is unparalleled in the scope of human existence, okay, and on top of that it does not have a shower, which I desperately needed an hour ago.”

Kelly made a face at the sad row of cottages.  “You think this place has running water, Holmes, you’re crazy.”

"I don't care if it’s got a _swimming hole_, I am at the end of my rope, here.  Now will you _please _go in there like a good little boy and – ”

Kelly jerked his head at the door.  “You, too.  C’mon.”

Scotty sighed.  “No, man.  It’s going to be easier if you make all the arrangements on your side of town, and I make all the arrangements – ”

“I.  Do not have.  A _side _in this goddamned – ” Kelly cut himself off, jaw clenching convulsively, the veneer cracking.  Without hesitation, Scotty closed the distance between them and placed a hand on his arm. 

“Hey,” he said softly, fingertips meeting unresisting muscle.  “I know that.  I know.”

Kel’s jaw muscle leapt.  “I hate this.”

“Love it or leave it,” Scotty murmured.  “This is America.  These are the people we are sworn to defend.”

Kelly shook his head once, jerkily.  “I’m not dying for these people.”

Scotty gave Kel’s arm a final squeeze before letting go.  “Guess you’ll have to stick around, then.”

Kel looked at him then, really looked at him, and Scotty felt all the oxygen leave his lungs, because Kel had always looked at him with a gaze that was completely color-blind.  He’d never known another white American who could manage that particular trick, and he didn’t think he ever would.  Right from day one, Kel had gotten under his skin – in every way possible – and he had just gone along as though the petty problems of the rest of the country didn’t exist.  It helped that they didn’t spend a whole hell of a lot of time in this country, but even when they were home, he acted no differently.

Right now, though, Kel wasn’t looking beyond the skin; that gaze was sliding over Scotty’s surface, searching for some kind of answer for himself.  Searching for an understanding of everything Scotty carried with him, everything that weighed him down in a place like this, even though he could speak seven languages and his loaded 1911 was strapped to his shoulder, even though he could walk in Venice and Mexico City and Tokyo with his head held high.

Scotty was torn in two directions.  On the one hand, he wanted him to look – because this was a part of him too, the smell of his grandmama’s greens and people thinking _nigger _when he walked down the street.  But on the other hand, he desperately wanted to shield Kelly from that knowledge, because the only time he himself could forget was when he was with the man standing in front of him.  When he was with Kel, he could be both a black man and a man, and there was no dissonance between them, none, just two strong notes sounded in perfect harmony.

He didn’t want to lose that. 

_So don’t_, a voice inside him said, a voice that sounded a lot like his father's.  _Stand up beside him, not behind him.  It doesn’t matter where you are, as long as you’re together._

Scotty stepped forward and reached for the handle on the office door.  “Okay, then,” he said, “together.”

Kel’s face broke into a genuine smile for the first time since the car had spluttered to a stop on the I-55.  “Together,” he agreed, voice warm, and that was almost enough to give Scotty the strength he needed to do this.

    
    
    
    
   
    
    
    
    
 

  
In the end, booking the cabin was anticlimactic.  Compared to the tow truck driver, the pimply-faced girl behind the counter was sunshine itself, even though she glared at Scotty at first, like now she’d have to change the sheets for sure.  The glaring stopped abruptly, though, when Kel casually let his jacket gape open, revealing the holster for his snubby P-39. 

The cabin was pretty much as Scotty expected – décor about twenty years out of date, framed artwork of the faded beer calendar variety.  There was, however, a clean if tiny bathroom equipped with running water.  Scotty was halfway out of his clothes before Kel had even closed the cabin door.

“If you’re gonna give the town a nudie show, at least let me print and sell some tickets first,” Kelly muttered.  Scotty only waved at him and kept stripping on his way to the bathroom.

In the shower, he finally gave himself permission to relax for the first time – well, in days, really.  New Orleans, for all its cosmopolitan airs, was still a Southern town, and the lines between black and white blurred only in the French Quarter.  Everywhere else, it was business as usual.  Just like in the one-horse towns where his grandparents had grown up, there was a fancy main street and a back street.  Rich and poor, black and white, parallel lines that never met.

“Hey, you fall asleep in there?” Kelly’s voice made him jump, and he yanked back the curtain, intending to give him a piece of his mind, but when he did, he found a Kel who looked as keyed up as he felt, and he swallowed what he’d been about to say.  Kel had taken off his shirt; Scotty saw the reddened rectangle on his shoulder where Kel’s new holster had pressed against his skin, and his chest felt inexplicably tight.

“I’m good, Chester,” Scotty said, smiling.  “You want to soap my back?”

Kelly’s gaze darkened, and Scotty realized he’d miscalculated.  Kel was still in that dangerous stage, still on the prowl.  “Maybe,” he said, eyes raking over the length of Scotty’s body, and Scotty shivered. 

They’d done this maybe a handful of times since becoming partners, and every time Scotty would swear it was the last time.  Loving Kel too much was dangerous, and not just for the obvious reasons.  But every time Kel came to him, Scotty couldn’t turn him down.  He’d convinced himself that although Kel might want a lot of people, Scotty was the only one he _needed_, not that Kel would ever admit to it.

But was he still the guy that Kel needed?  What had happened to him, to them, this afternoon?

Silently, Scotty handed over the bar of soap and turned his back to Kel.  He heard Kel suck in a deep breath and let it out before the first slippery touch.  Kel dragged the soap over his back in a graceful, swirling caress, then set down the bar and applied both hands to giving Scotty a slow, deep massage.  When he reached the taut muscles of his neck, Scotty hung his head and groaned.  Behind him, Kel muttered a soft curse.

“Your arthritis actin’ up?” Scotty murmured, though his voice was too breathy to make the statement come out as flip as he’d hoped. 

The hands abruptly left him, and Scotty did a little cursing himself as he ducked his head under the spray and rinsed the remaining soap off himself.  When he shut off the taps and stepped out of the shower, Kel was nowhere to be seen.  Reaching for one of the scratchy grey towels, Scotty scrubbed himself dry as quickly as possible, nearly scraping off half his skin in the process. 

Damn.  He’d done it now, probably pissed Kel off so much that he’d run out on him.  Only when Kel ran out on him in Madrid or Hong Kong, he couldn’t get into the kind of trouble he could cook up for himself here.  The only thing to do was to get dressed and head out –

He walked into the main room of the cabin and nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw that Kel hadn’t gone anywhere.  In fact, he’d made himself right at home, stripping off the covers of one of the beds and stretching out on it stark naked, one hand wrapped around his hard cock.  His stroke was almost lazy, but Scotty could still see the tension in him, his body coiled and ready. 

As though pulled by a magnet, Scotty walked over to the bed until his knees hit the edge of the mattress. 

_What do you need?_ he wanted to ask.  _What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?_

“Thought maybe you were taking your evening constitutional,” Scotty said, letting some of the concern bleed into his voice.  _Stay close_, he was trying to say.  _Stay with me._

Kel looked up at him, gaze warming, and Scotty knew he’d heard the unspoken message.  “Nah,” Kel said, shaking his head, speaking in that iambic beatnik groove of his.  “I thought I would spend the evening in.  Heat up a frozen dinner, watch _Man from U.N.C.L.E._”

“Sounds like a plan,” Scotty said reasonably, sitting carefully on the bed beside him.  His own cock was firming up, but he still had no clue as to where this was going. 

And then Kel leaned back and looked up at him, his gaze hooded, and suddenly Scotty knew exactly what he needed.  For the first time, he needed Scotty to start this, to make the first move.

He needed Scotty to show him this was what _he _needed, too.

And since Scotty had never been able to refuse Kel anything, he leaned forward and kissed him, slow and easy, like this was something they did every night instead of something fast and desperate for the few times they couldn’t keep it under control. 

He kept that up for a while, just using his lips and the pads of his fingers on Kel’s arms to get the point across.  Whenever Kel tried to quicken the pace, Scotty would ease off, ease back, and Kel would make that huffy, growling noise and follow his lead.  After he figured he’d made his point, he stoked the fire gradually, using the barely-there nip of teeth or the extra pressure of his grip, or the stroke of a foot on an inner calf. 

“Christ,” Kel gasped when Scotty’s hand cupped his hip.  “I need – ”

And as much as Scotty wanted to hear Kel complete that sentence for once, he knew Kel would hate himself for the weakness afterwards.  And anyway, it didn’t matter:  he knew what Kel needed.  Always had.

Stopping Kel’s words with his mouth, Scotty wrapped his hand around Kel’s cock.  He was rewarded with a grateful groan and the taut arch of Kel’s body, right before he sagged in Scotty’s grip, giving himself up to Scotty’s care because he trusted Scotty with every piece of him, blood and bones and heart and soul. 

Kel came quickly and without warning, his completion marked only by the warmth in Scotty’s hand and the near-silent gasps into Scotty’s open mouth; he then twisted away from Scotty’s arms and lay prone on the bed, face pressed against his forearms.  Scotty didn’t need an engraved invitation; he reached for the Vaseline Kel had been using and slicked himself up.  Nudging Kel’s legs wide, he balanced on one hand and guided his erection into Kel’s body.

His progress was slow and deliberate – he wasn’t sure how long it had been since Kel had done this – but it obviously wasn’t fast enough for Kel, because he suddenly rose to his  knees with a growl and shoved his body back, taking Scotty in all the way.  Scotty grabbed at Kel’s hip with one hand, trying to regain the upper hand, but Kel eluded his control, fucking himself in a ruthless, almost vicious cadence. 

Scotty’s usually swift brain was slowed by the incredible sensations, so it took him a few seconds to realize that Kel wasn’t just eager to be fucked.  He was _punishing _himself.  Punishing himself for parallel lines, for an accident of birth, for the meaning of his own skin.

Scotty’s blood ran cold, then hot.  Bending down, he used his weight against Kel’s back to slow his pace, then wrapped one strong arm around Kel’s lean chest.  “No,” he rasped in Kel’s ear.  “Not like this.  You can’t have it like this.”

Kel made a feral sound and Scotty felt the tension he’d observed in Kel all day surge to the surface, lending him fresh strength.  But Scotty was ready, and when Kel pushed up, Scotty let him, used Kel’s own frustration to get him right where he wanted him.  His own arm still bracketing Kel’s torso, he guided them both up onto their knees, his cock sinking even further into Kel’s body. 

Kel groaned like he was dying and flung his head back against Scotty’s shoulder.  Pretty far gone himself, Scotty closed his eyes and buried his nose in Kel’s soft hair.  “Together, remember?” he panted.  “You wanted – together.”

“Still – want that,” Kel panted back, chest heaving.

“Then prove it,” Scotty murmured, beginning to move under him.  “Like this.  Together, like this.”

Kel’s answer was a hand reaching back to hook around Scotty’s neck, a soft, needful moan and a slow, sinuous roll of his hips.  Scotty placed his mouth on the mark on Kel’s shoulder and tasted iron and salt.

    
    
    
    
   
    
    
    
    
 

When Kel lay sated and sprawled on the bed, Scotty turned to the transistor radio on the night table.  The late night brought in stations from near and far; he remembered creeping down the hall to the living room as a kid to turn on the radio and listen to music from far and exotic places deep in the South.  Turning the dial, he found what he was looking for - a little Memphis station playing some of Stax's finest:

_I was born by a river _   
_In a little old tent_   
_Just like this river_   
_I’ve been running ever since  _

“Hmmm,” Kel murmured.  “Didn’t know you could sing like Otis.”

“I have many hidden talents,” Scotty assured him, smiling at Kel’s face mashed into the pillow.  Eyes opening to half-mast, Kel reached out and stroked his fingers over Scotty’s forearm, his gaze on the place where their skins met.

And Scotty drifted off to sleep like that, suspended somewhere between the sound of Otis’ dark molasses voice and the touch of Kelly’s soft as moonlight fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> First published June, 2006.


End file.
